


Intentions

by lamardeuse



Series: The Declarative Case [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James declares his intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Please see end notes for an additional warning.
> 
> Set approximately a year after the events of Series 6, so spoilers for that series.
> 
> Thanks to yunitsa, anon_librarian, wendymr and a lovely anonymous person for beta and Britpicking assistance, and thanks to the folks at the inspector_lewis comm on LJ for opera help. :)

Robbie hadn't asked for a retirement party – in fact, he could remember specifically saying he didn't _want_ a retirement party. Of course, coppers were notorious for seizing upon any excuse for a booze-up, so when Innocent had told him she wanted to take him out for a farewell dinner, he hadn't been surprised in the least when the pub had been filled with Oxfordshire's finest.

“Congratulations, sir,” Julie said, which would make her about the fortieth so far.

“Not 'sir' any more, Julie. Call me Robbie if you like.”

“You'll always be 'sir' to me,” Julie said, a light of mischief in her eyes, “but if we're getting familiar, I will do this.” And to his surprise, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Smiling as she pulled away, she said, “You're one of the good ones, sir. I've been proud to work with you.”

Robbie couldn't help the faint flush that rose to his cheeks. “You too, lass. Best of luck, though I doubt you'll be needing it.”

“Does the queue for kisses form on the right, then?” Laura asked, stepping forwards as Julie smiled her farewell. 

“You'll always have special permission to jump the queue,” Robbie quipped. 

“Oh, that's very generous of you,” Laura drawled. “Honestly, you'd think you were going off to Australia, the way people are carrying on.”

“You never know,” Robbie said. “I could disappear tomorrow, leave no trace of me whereabouts.”

“Find a desert island somewhere? You'd be bored in a week.” She paused. “Have you spoken with James tonight?”

“Not since we came in and all hell broke loose.” Robbie scanned the crowd. Hathaway's height meant he usually wasn't hard to spot, but he was nowhere to be seen at the moment. “Has he left already?” It stung a little that James might have headed out without saying goodbye, even though they'd vowed to stay in touch. He didn't want to lose the lad's friendship after all they'd been through, but now that he thought of it, James' response to that overture had been a little half-hearted.

“Not unless it was in the last five minutes. That's when I spied him in one of the back booths, doing a fantastic impersonation of a statue.”

“A statue?”

“Motionless? Fixed expression, staring at nothing? Though admittedly there aren't a lot of statues who guzzle single malt.”

Robbie frowned. “I'd better go talk to him.”

Laura stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You might want to let him be tonight. He's obviously feeling a little – fragile.”

“I don't see why,” Robbie huffed. “Innocent's said he's practically a shoo-in for the Inspector vacancy they'll be posting at the end of the month. He can finally be shot of the old sod, spread his wings.”

Laura treated him to a look that could best be described as pitying. “Oh, Robbie, sometimes I swear –”

“Look, there he is.” Robbie saw James in the crowd and waved to catch his attention. There was a bit of a wobble in James' step, but that could just be from the need to dodge all the bodies in the way. When James reached them, though, Robbie could clearly see the flush in his cheeks and the glazed look in his eyes. Bloody hell, they'd only been here an hour; how much whiskey had the lad got into?

“What's up?” Robbie demanded, searching James' face.

James scanned the room. “Nothing. I'm celebrating. Isn't this a celebration?”

“Suppose so,” Robbie said. He noted that James still hadn't looked at him. What the bloody hell was going on?

Laura said, too heartily, “Well, I'm going to find your fearless leader and see if I can prevent her from making a speech. I'll see you later?” Robbie nodded, sparing her a brief smile, and Laura beat a hasty retreat.

“Was I interrupting something?” James said. 

“Not really,” Robbie said, meaning it. After months of trying, Peterson had finally succeeded in getting Laura to go out with him, and now they were a bit of an item. Laura seemed happy, which was all that mattered, and for all that Robbie hadn't seen eye to eye with the bloke, he couldn't fault him for his taste. And Laura deserved someone who was arse over tit for her. 

That got a flicker of reaction from James, finally, if a glance could be considered a reaction. “I – I'm going to be heading out soon,” he said, waving a hand near his left ear. “Bit of a headache.”

Robbie didn't point out that the whiskey couldn't have helped much with that. “Give me a few minutes. I'll drive you home.”

James frowned. “But your party–”

“Sod the party. They won't even notice I've gone.”

“They will,” James said, his voice acquiring a raw, jagged edge. “Don't you know they love you? Everyone loves you.”

Robbie stared at him, and James stared back, his eyes widening. Robbie's heart did an odd dance in his chest.

“Erm,” James said. “Need the loo.”

And with that he spun on his heel and headed towards the back of the pub again. Robbie was just about to follow him when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Robbie,” Innocent said. “Laura's threatened me with some of her rustier scalpels if I give a speech, but do you think you could bear to accept the gift we got for you?”

He took a deep, steadying breath. Hathaway was already gone, and Robbie would bet five quid he wasn't in the gents.

“I think I could bear that,” he said, putting on his best smile.

          

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

          

It was another hour before Robbie could get away, and by the time he reached Hathaway's flat, the front rooms appeared dark. He debated with himself for about five seconds, then rang the bell.

If Hathaway's prompt answer wasn't enough of a clue, the fact that he was still in his work trousers and shirt was conclusive evidence he hadn't been asleep. Robbie briefly considered asking him if he'd been lurking there in the dark like a bloody vampire, then decided against it. Hathaway's carefully blank expression left no doubt that he was in no mood for flippancy.

What exactly he was in the mood for was still a mystery.

Instead, he reached in his coat pocket and dug out the envelope. “It was a very thoughtful present,” Robbie said, meaning it. A trip to Paris, all expenses paid, to see two performances at the Opéra, including _The Barber of Seville_. “Thank you.”

Hathaway made a show of studying his shoes. “Everyone chipped in.”

“Nobody else knew the name of me favourite opera.” James' head snapped up. “Look, can I come in?”

“I don't – all right,” James murmured, stepping back to allow Robbie entry. Robbie flicked on the light switch in the living room and immediately spotted the bottle and the glass lying on the coffee table beside Hathaway's laptop. He opened his mouth to say something, but James' quelling look silenced him. 

“Guess I've given up the right to lecture you as of today, yeah?” Robbie said, and was shocked to see Hathaway look stricken in response. He took a step forwards, reaching for him instinctively.

“I'm handing in my papers tomorrow,” James said flatly, taking a step back. He gestured at the laptop. “Was just working on the letter to Innocent.”

Robbie took a moment to assimilate this new information. “That's too bad. You're a damn good copper, James. But I know it's been weighing on you lately.”

“It's been a bit longer than that,” James murmured. “I've had that resignation letter ready for over a year.”

Robbie frowned. “You wanted to pack it in for that long, but kept at it? Why?”

Hathaway shrugged. “You wouldn't have liked to break in anyone new, I expect. And all the other Sergeants are terrified of you,” he added, mouth quirking.

“Give over,” Robbie muttered. “Seriously, man, you should have said something.”

James only shook his head. “It wasn't a hardship. If I'd been working with anyone else –” He met Robbie's gaze. “You made me feel as though I were doing something worthwhile.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, you kept me wanting to go to work.” James stared at him. “Is that what they call a catch-22?”

James' eyes softened a little. “Something like that.”

It occurred to Robbie that Hathaway hadn't asked him to sit. “Do you have another job lined up?” he asked. 

“Not exactly. I'm going to go back to uni for my Master's in social work.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows at him. “Isn't that a bit like going from the frying pan into the fire?”

“It could be, certainly. But I found that when it came right down to it I didn't want to be stuck in an ivory tower again. I wanted to be in the world and of the world.”

“Is that Aquinas?”

James shook his head dolefully. “Audrey Hepburn.”

Robbie treated him to a mock scowl, and James shotgunned a laugh. _I'll not see him tomorrow_ , Robbie thought, the reality he'd been avoiding hitting him full in the face. The seminar Innocent had forced him to attend talked about how retirement-related stress centred around losing a part of your identity. Robbie would miss being James' governor more than all the other things combined.

Nodding at the whiskey, he said, “So are you going to offer your old Inspector a drink, then?”

James blinked at him. “Of course,” he said, and loped off to the kitchen to fetch another glass.

          

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

          

They fell into companionable conversation, Robbie asking about James' plans, the courses he was going to take in the autumn. The lad wanted to work with at-risk youth, for heaven's sake.

“And you thought murder investigations were heartbreaking,” Robbie murmured, sipping his whiskey and savouring the smoothness as it slid over his tongue. James had very good taste.

“I know,” James said, with a small smile. “But I can't help it. You remember Silas, last year?”

“I remember them all, lad,” Robbie said gently.

“He – really stuck with me,” James said. “I couldn't help but think how easily that could have been me.”

Robbie paused. “I suspected you didn't have the happiest childhood,” he said carefully; James had been so odd earlier, he wasn't sure of his footing. But somehow, this night seemed made for the telling of truths.

James studied his glass, which he held between his palms. “I know you wondered if Mortmaigne abused me.”

Robbie opened his mouth, closed it. “I wondered, yeah.”

“He didn't. But he was planning to. Paul was seventeen the summer I turned twelve – a bit old for his taste – and my father must have suspected his Lordship was casting about for a fresh victim. One day, he invited me to practice piano with him at the weekend. Dad had us packed and gone the next day.”

“That was lucky,” Robbie murmured. 

“For me,” James said. “Not for the one Mortmaigne picked in my stead, or all the ones who followed after. And my father blamed me for his having to resign.”

Robbie stared at him, gobsmacked. “What?”

James downed the rest of his whiskey and winced at the burn. “Best job he'd ever had – and his nancy of a son fucked it up. He told me that a lot, usually when he was drunk. Eventually I ran – more than once. I was a hairsbreadth from ending up on the streets before our parish priest brought me round.”

“Jesus, James,” Robbie breathed, laying a hand on his arm. James looked down at it for a moment, then seemed to shake himself.

“I tried to persuade Innocent to investigate Mortmaigne when I first joined up, you know. She had a team make some discreet enquiries, but no one was willing to come forward. And my testimony would have been circumstantial. Paul never talked about it with me; all I ever knew were childish rumours.”

“I know you won't agree with me, but you did what you could,” Robbie said. He realised his hand was still on James' arm, but he couldn't seem to take it away. 

“Well,” James said, falsely bright, “that's me explained, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, you're a bloody open book, you are,” Robbie said, finally letting go. James glanced at him, then ducked his head and snorted, ceding the point.

“What about you?” James asked, setting down his empty glass and turning towards Robbie on the couch. “What are your plans?”

“Eh, I don't know yet. Lyn wants me to come live near her in Manchester, but I think we might drive each other barmy if we spend that much time with one another. The way it is now, it's just far enough away for visits to be special occasions.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” James murmured, gaze searching Robbie's face.

“Something like that. And I've lived in Oxford for thirty years, off and on. For all the toffs and hallowed halls, it's home.”

“Have you thought about volunteering? The Center I've been helping out at is in desperate need of a rugby coach. The kids want to start a team, but there's no one who's played.”

“Been a long time since I've played, myself,” Robbie said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don't know if they'd mind an old fart like me.”

“They respond to kindness, just like anyone else. You have too much of it to let it go to waste.”

Robbie could feel his cheeks heating at Hathaway's words. “Thanks. Good to know yours isn't going to waste, either.” James didn't answer, only watched him, and Robbie cocked his head. “Oi, you trying to come up with reasons for me to stay in Oxford?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I want you to move to Manchester and realise how much you miss me.”

Robbie searched his face. The tone was teasing, but the laser-sharp intensity of Hathaway's gaze was anything but. Why not, Robbie thought; he'd drunk just enough to tell the truth. “I miss you already, lad,” he said softly. “I know we said we'll keep in touch, but – well, you're starting a whole new life. You'll move on, and well you should.”

Hathaway stared at him. “God,” he breathed, “Laura was right, wasn't she? You really do have no idea.” And before Robbie had the time to make sense of that bizarre statement, Hathaway had reached up and placed a hand right on Robbie's face, fingers curving along the line of his jaw.

“James,” Robbie began, but that was as far as he got because he didn't know what on earth to say next.

“You don't have to miss me,” Hathaway murmured, and Robbie's pulse jumped because James' thumb was brushing his lower lip now, and he was leaning closer, and _Jesus._

Robbie had only ever kissed one bloke before, and that was Andy Collins back in fourth year, when he'd told Robbie they should practise so the girls didn't laugh at them. Robbie had always wondered if Andy was possessed of an ulterior motive, especially when he'd never ended up going out with a single girl all through school. Any road, it certainly had been pleasant enough, and not really all that different to snogging girls. 

Kissing Hathaway wasn't pleasant. Shocking, because Robbie honestly hadn't had any idea that James wanted to kiss him, and terrifying, because he hadn't had any idea that he wanted James to kiss him, but apparently both were true, because after a stunned moment he was raising a shaking hand to the back of Hathaway's neck to pull him closer. James groaned under his mouth and opened to him, tip of his tongue tentative against Robbie's upper lip. Robbie tilted his head and nipped at Hathaway's tongue, and after that it got a bit mad and bloody brilliant.

When James finally pulled away, gasping, Robbie took in his flushed face and his kiss-bruised mouth and felt an almost feral wave of possessiveness sweep through him. That was also terrifying, so he forced his mind to focus on something else. “Hang on,” he said. “When did you start calling her Laura?”

Hathaway blinked at him for a moment. “That's the first question that comes to mind?”

Robbie only raised his eyebrows in response, and the corners of James' mouth twitched. “Since she dragged me out one night, got me piss drunk and told me to stop mucking about.”

“When was that?”

“A few months ago. But I wanted to wait until you'd retired to – declare my intentions.” 

“To declare – what is this, Downton bloody Abbey?”

Hathaway gave his smile free rein, and Robbie's addled brain pieced together the evidence from the last couple of minutes. James had felt – however he felt – about him for months, but it sounded like it went back further than that, if Laura had been aware of it for long enough to be frustrated with James' inaction. Which meant Laura was a better detective than he was, but how could Robbie have seen _this_? James was young enough to be his son; it was daft.

“You're thinking up reasons to turn me down, aren't you?” Hathaway asked quietly. 

“No! I just – well, I should have known, shouldn't I? Why didn't I know?”

“To be honest, I was never sure,” James said. “It's not as though I took great pains to hide it from you. There were times I was positive I'd tipped my hand, and you were just pretending not to see it to avoid having to hurt my feelings. But now I suppose I can chalk it up to your complete lack of awareness of your own appeal.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

James' eyes danced. “It's one of your more charming attributes.” Robbie huffed out an impatient breath, and James cocked his head. “You're not turning me down, then.”

“I'm too gobsmacked to do much of anything,” Robbie admitted.

James nodded slowly. “Gobsmacked is good,” he said, his gaze dipping to Robbie's mouth. Robbie felt his heart kick into a gallop.

“I'd, erm, better go,” Robbie murmured, pushing himself to his feet. 

James blinked up at him. “Can I ring you tomorrow, maybe take you to lunch? I'd already booked the afternoon off – didn't really want to be around after I handed in that letter.”

“Yeah,” Robbie said, his voice sounding rusty to his ears. “I'd like that.” He stood frozen for a moment, staring stupidly down at James, then turned to go. James stood, and something in Robbie made him turn back, reach for the lad blindly. When they parted a long minute later, Robbie's fingers were clutching at James' hips and his lips were tingling from the rasp of James' evening stubble. 

James' eyes were more than a little wild, and he ran a shaking hand through his hair as Robbie watched. “Tomorrow, then,” he managed, stepping back.

“Tomorrow,” Robbie echoed, his arms falling to his sides as he lost his grip on James. 

Robbie didn't exactly run, but it was a near thing; when he got home, he could barely remember the drive back to his flat. And as he fell into bed a couple of hours later, his brain finally giving up the fight to make sense of it all, his last conscious thought was a piece of wisdom from the seminar: _you can never predict where retirement will take you. Remain open to the possibilities._

It was a long time before he could stop laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: brief mention of childhood sexual abuse.


End file.
